Tag Archives: dreams

A few weeks ago I went out for an 8 mile run. I was ill prepared and not thinking I was going to make it. But, turns out, I did GREAT. I wouldn’t so much call it a run, or even a jog, but maybe a trot. A jaunt, if you will. I was kicking it. Man, was I in a good mood when I got back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am a runner. I am not a small woman. In fact, the closer I get to 40, the wider my butt gets. And my waist. And my butt. But still, this is something I do. And I ain’t lying, yo. Check me out:

My medal from my half marathon last fall.

My first Mudathlon.

My second Mudathlon.

Me rocking some underboob sweat after a 10-mile.

Me looking cute as Jim sucks in and Laura inexplicably pretends her banana is a phone.

Look, here’s me running the in the outfield after a Joliet Slammers game in a skirt!

SEE. I AM AN ATHLETE.

In a few days, I am running once again. Jim and are will be joining a group of friends to run a half marathon in Indianapolis. I won’t lie, my knee is kinda tweaked and I am afraid that I that I will slow all my friends down. But I have had a couple of really good long runs and I feel pretty good about it.

But back to that day when I finished my 8 mile run. I got home from this run right about the time that Hank was getting home from school, and I was all *high five* and *fist bump* and *slap my butt* only that part I did myself because gross, I’m not going to have my kid slap my big old butt.

When I came home, however, I checked my phone and saw a text about the Boston Marathon. “What kind of asshole bombs a marathon?” my sister wrote.

So I snapped on the TV. Sure enough, some asshole bombed the Boston Marathon.

I am not afraid to run the half marathon in Indianapolis. But honestly, I’m kind of pissed. Everyone knows that you have to work really hard to get in shape. But sometimes, even the fittest of the fit, even they can’t run.

It’s true. Running isn’t just for people who are perfectly physically fit. I think I am proof of that. I’ve got a big butt and I cannot lie. I am a good 40+ pounds overweight. But I am a runner.

It’s this sport that is about much more than your footstrike and speed. I hit a 12-minute mile and I feel like Speedy Gonzalez only less animated and racist. It’s a sport that is far more about your ability to endure than your ability to hurry it up. You don’t need to be have a specialized skill, you just need momentum and stamina.

Nobody runs for the fame of it. I mean, name a famous marathoner. I am sure they exist, but if it’s not track and field at the Olympics (and seriously, who watches the “field” portion? Javelin is ZERO fun when no one is really at risk of being impaled), then no one is watching. And even then it’s just for the chance to yell USA USA and hope that this run will get you a free Big Mac.

Runners are all a little bit like Forrest Gump. We’re not going anywhere, we just felt like running.

Who the hell bombs those people?

I mean, it’s not like there is a group of athletes out there who deserve that more. But runners only run to run. Sure, the super top guys are sponsored and what not. But for the rest of them — the ones who are finishing 26.2 at the 4-hour mark — it’s just for their spiffy medal and a technical t-shirt that rides up funny and a photo that they have to pay $30 to get a copy of. It’s just to say, hey, I ran a marathon!

Runners are pretty selfless athletes. They see a goal, and it’s really far away, and they run to it. That’s all.

I think a lot of the runners this weekend will be doing it “in memory” of the victims. But not me, not so much. I am not running to honor them as victims. I am running to honor them as runners, and families of runners, and friends of runners. I am running to honor myself as a runner, and my own friends. I am running because I can. Because I am a runner.

So I’ve been having an issue with accountability lately. Seems that a whole lot of the things that I had regularly engaged in as part of an effort to keep myself sane have just gone out the window.

Food — I eat it all, who needs moderation? Not me, I’ll tell ya.

School — why check backpacks, Jimmy will do it.

Television — Okay, okay, not exactly a priority, but as far as down time that I frankly owe myself, well, I have yet to watch a single episode of The Closer.

This space — if there’s one thing I enjoy, it’s the sound of my own voice, which translates in these here internets to my blog. More than a month! I’ve skipped five weeks of doing something I enjoy. Bummer.

This month on the facepage, people have been doing something obscenely annoying totally introspective: The Month of Thanksgiving. Folks from all walks of life are taking time normally set aside for stalking ex-boyfriends and playing mafia wars to list one thing each day for which they are thankful. You know, for Thanksgiving. Because Thanksgiving in America is all about saying, “Hey Indians, thanks for the food, now step aside while we rape and pillage your land. Oh, don’t worry, we’ll give you “reservations” where the earth is bruised and rocky and the water is completely non-potable but the Bingo far exceeds any expectation you saw in your latest hot sweat vision quest!” And nothing celebrates that sentiment quite like two sentence quips each day on an addictive website built by a millionaire teenage dork.

Well, I have NOT participated in the Month of Thanksgiving. But I am. Thankful, I mean, For all sorts of stuff. So I present to you, 30 days of thanks, all in one convenient package:

1 – Health. Food might be on my list of things I have been bad about, but at least Zumba Stacey keeps me in check. It’s nice to be able to move like you’re one big sass machine.

2 – Beer. How can anyone dislike a food that will trigger you to vomit if you’ve had too much? It’s barley and hops sponsored bulimia at its best.

3 – Teachers. Without them, I’d have to parent 24 hours a day. No thank you. I didn’t have kids so I could watch them.

4 – Naps. Did you ever notice the way children freak the hell out at even the suggestion that they settle down, let alone lie down, let alone close their eyes? Can you imagine if every single day someone said to you, go sleep for no less than 45 minites. Sweet mercy, I would be in heaven.

5 – Pooping. I’m sorry, that just feels great.

6 – Chocolate. I am not a sweet fiend, but even I can appreciate this one.

7 – Chicago. Everyone has their big city, even if they don’t live there. This one is mine.

8 – Aruba. I’ve never met you, but we have a date. January 4, 2014.

9 – The never-ending saga that is Law and Order. Man was I ever pissed when they canceled your flagship show. IT NEVER GETS OLD. bum-BUM!!

10 -Lady Gaga. Self explanatory.

11 -Selena Gomez.. Your songs are so catchy and my sons are deeply in love with you. Sure, I am totally afraid that the day will come when the very magazines I bought featuring you will become my son’s first stroke material. At which point I will want you banished from all things Disney. Just please don’t Lohan on me.

12 – Smart phones. THEY ARE SO SMART!!

13 – The First Amendment. Totally working for me.

14 – Divorce. Also totally working for me.

15 – Pitbull. Possibly the worst artist ever. But I have never in my life wanted so bad to find somebody sexy and tell them hey.

20 – Central air. Now hear me out. I despise manufactured cold air. I love few things in life the way I love to sweat in July. But with my love comes fear that the rest of the free world disagrees. And no one, especially me, wants to deal with my husband Sybil when the oppressive heat of summer refuses to let go. Even I know when it’s time to flip the switch.

21 – The oppressive heat of summer. That’s why I have both a front and a back porch.

22 – The Chicago Cubs. Because the only way to stay sane is to deal with eternal heartbreak.

23 – Boobs. They’re right there and even these old gals come in handy.

24 – The Happy Place. Where happiness takes place, 365 days a year. I know there is supposed to be some natural rivalry and lifelong disdain between the cheeseheads and the FIBS, but there are few things in this world as truly beautiful as rural Wisconsin. Just so long as we don’t have to collectively bargain to keep it that way.

25 – Kayla and Nancy. A girl ain’t nothin’ without some girls of her own.

26 – Three sisters and one brother, all of whom are in their 40’s. I am in my 30’s. Suck it hags.

27 – My Mom and Dad. I NEVER tell them how much I love and appreciate them. Because clearly, I am a shit.

28 – Jimmy. Seriously, what were the chances of that ever happening?

29 – My boys, Hank and George. If you’d asked me when I was younger if I’d have sons or daughters or a combination, I would have told you sons. It’s pretty much the one thing I was ever THAT right about. I love those kiddos. They are the best thing I have ever done.

30 – Peace, love and happiness. I have it. I should take the time to notice it a little more often.

Anyone who spent a good portion of the 90’s watching Friends (or the time since then watching re-runs on TBS) knows three very specific things:

1 – Monica was way too skinny.

2 – “The Rachel” might as well have been a mullet — it seemed like a good idea at the time, but looking back, sweet Lordy what was that? And anyone with that haircut now is worthy of being pointed at and snickered about.

and

3 – One of the best concepts EVER was The List.

Now, I certainly don’t assume that Friends came up with this idea, only that they popularized it for my generation. The List is the five people you can cheat on your significant other with, without any consequences because of their stature on your list. There are a few rules, obviously. Mostly, the person has to be famous. I cannot exactly put the guy down the street on my list. Unless the guy down the street is totally famous and out of my league. Then — on the list he goes.

Over the years my version of The List has changed dramatically. But I think it’s fair time that I go ahead and create a new one. In the past, The List was always just a thought. But now it’s blog-worthy. On the internets for all to see. Which means it is like a contract. So Jimmy has to just accept it. I can be with these men if I have the opportunity. You are all my witnesses.

The List, 2011 edition:

#5 — Bill Kurtis

Oh, wipe that look of horror off your face.

Yes, Bill Kurtis.

Bill Kurtis is 70 years old. And his voice is as dreamy as ever. I got physically excited when he returned to Chicago news a couple of years back. That VOICE. Oh! I swear, he could say, “Marney, I am certain that you are about to be sliced up by a serial killer, a serial killer with a lust for moms and a desire to watch them suffer” and I would be like OH SWOON BILL KURTIS.

The only man to survive the cut from my original version of The List, the one I first made after that episode of Friends aired back in 1996. At that time, I was given the “eeewwweee” from my actual friends for picking a 56-year-old man. But I’m keeping him.

#4 — Johnny Galecki

I met Johnny Galecki once in a bar in Oak Park. And I was like “hey, you are totally famous, you are on Roseanne!” And he was like “no, dude…… giggle….. don’t say that.”

I don’t think either one of us was old enough to be in that bar. And silly drunk Johnny Galecki did not turn me on. But Leonard from Big Bang Theory totally does it for me.

#3 — Pacey Joshua Jackson

I’ll admit it, I was a Dawson girl. To this day, I am still pissed as hell that the show ended with Pacey and Joey together. Oh, and sorry I didn’t throw *spoiler alert* in there, but if you didn’t watch that episode by now, it’s doubtful that your VHS will fire up anyway to let you check the tape. PACEY gets the girl. DAWSON is alone. Even though the whole creek belonged to Dawson.

But then came Peter Bishop. And hum-a-nuh hum-a-nuh hum-a-nuh. All is forgiven Pacey. After all, if Dawson could see what you have to go through now, I’m sure he’d say, “I don’t want your life.”

*zing*

#2 — Jon Stewart

Does this really need an explanation?

#1 — Misha Collins

Holy crap am I ever in love with this guy.

He’s the one in the middle there. And as you can see, in order to be in love with this guy, it is necessary for me to be a 37-year-old woman who admits that her super favorite show is Supernatural. Which, you would think, would make me pick one of the two Winchester boys to be my #1. I mean, LOOK AT THEM. Holy hottness, huh?

But no. No no no no no. I like this guy in the middle. Castiel, the good angel gone rebel angel gone good angel gone fallen angel gone OH MY GOD ARE THEY GOING TO KILL HIM OFF NEXT SEASON NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

If I cared about Twitter, I would follow Misha Collins, because apparently he has quite a following.

Marney and Misha.

No one will know who is the boy and who is the girl.

And that, my friends, is how you make The List. I encourage you all to go make one of your own.

I also got the Michael Jackson dance game for Wii, prompting my husband to note that I received gifts probably more suited for my 7th birthday than my 37th birthday. But it is all so AWESOME.

I did manage to get off this shot before I ripped open my birthday bounty:

I was not trying to take a picture of the boys. I took this photo to preserve one act that has two distinct reasons behind it: the roll of wrapping paper sitting next to my presents.

See, Jim left that there for two reasons: 1) he bought it yesterday, because he doesn’t know where I keep the wrapping paper, and 2) he left it there on the table for me because he doesn’t know where I keep the wrapping paper.

I have let my 3-year-old watch “Cars” four times in the past two days, partly because I think TV is a viable babysitter, but also because I really like it.

I walked around WalMart holding a Kim Kardashian exercise video for at least 10 minutes today before I finally decided, not at this time.

I decided not to buy the Kim Kardashian exercise video when I realized it has been quite a while since I did my Carmen Electra “Strip to Fit” video, which I stopped doing when I realized that repeating any of those “strip tease” dance moves in the presence of my husband would result in the immediate dissolution of my marriage.

I like to poke my husband gently as he sleeps. And by “poke gently,” I mean I actually kick the snoring bastard. I discovered that sometimes he will sit up, look at me and say something before rolling over, but he has no memory of it in the morning. So I use it to get him to flip over and at least aim the vocals of the growling bear at the wall. I still don’t understand why two grown adults are expected to share a bed just because they are married. Just last week, when I gave my honey bunny a gentle nudge, he actually got up and went to sleep downstairs on the couch, and I was kinda happy.

I love pizza and will eat any type without discrimination. I swear you can hand me a pizza topped with chocolate-covered crickets and Mike-n-Ikes that has been set on fire and I will still eat it. I love pizza.

I have no idea where anything on the east coast is in relationship to anything else. I don’t know what’s north or south or closer to the ocean or what states touch. New York, Connecticut, Delaware, New Jersey, Massachusetts, Maryland, Washington DC, all of that New England stuff — not a clue.

I desperately want to live somewhere tropical one day.

My husband and I watch “The Biggest Loser” while eating ice cream and chips and watch “Intervention” while drinking. We are not very good people.

I don’t mind at all that I look like my mother.

When I think of my boys growing up, it makes me cry a little.

I am a good housewife-chef. I bake a delicious cake that stays moist for a full week, and when I make one and Jim brings the leftovers to work, his co-workers pretty much squeal with joy. My father-in-law actually gets giddy if he gets a piece of cake from my oven. Last week, per our New Year’s Day tradition, I made a turkey with all the trimmings, and it was the juiciest, most delicious turkey ever. I might not be Top Chef or Hell’s Kitchen quality, but Mama’s cooking keeps her boys happy.

I rarely if ever separate the clothes before doing laundry.

I have upon occasion purposely been rude/unpleasant/snotty to my son’s “father” (for example, putting quote marks around the word father), and it almost always comes back to bite me, yet I still do it.

Thanks to my husband’s intervention, I like hockey. I don’t understand it completely, but I like it.

I have been unable to get rid of a little black dress that has not fit me since I was 25 years old, because I desperately want to fit into it again one day because it is outrageously sexy. I hate that I think about how fat I have gotten every single day without fail.

I cried at Kayla’s wedding, but did not cry at my own.

If I were King of the World, the first thing I would get rid of is the designated hitter. Honestly, be a ball player already. Pick up a bat. Wussie league (them’s fighting words, in case you were wondering).

My best personality trait is that I have the ability to make people laugh. I’m no comedian, but I can crack a good joke or two, and I like that about myself.

I’m off today. Not off like, not working. Off like, I’m just not right.

I did my usual morning hub bub. I straightened up, made breakfast, put some clothes on myself and the boys, got Hank off to school. I went upstairs and made the beds. I drank my two cups and coffee and decided to go for a third cup — and now I’m thinking about a fourth. I procrastinated. But despite my usual to do, I’m off today. You see, last night I had the worst dream I have ever had in my entire life. Last night, I dreamt that my children died.

There were a lot of red flags in this dream that should have clued me in to the fact that I was asleep. For example, George Clooney was there. He was dressed in a robe and long beard as if he was playing God in a Monty Python flick. Apparently, he was not out of place — we were on a movie set for some reason. At other times, we were at home, but not our home. We were at my parent’s old house on Casa Solana. Through most of the dream, I was clutching a photo of the boys that does not exist. I won’t tell you how they died, it was worse than you think, even for a dream.

In my dream, I had to tell Jim what had happened. I couldn’t get any words out, until I finally screamed at him, “My children are dead.” At one point, I found Jim crouched in Hank’s room, drunk off his rocker, because his children were gone. But it wasn’t Hank’s room, it was my room, from when I was a teenager. See, that same room that was mine as a child was the room where we set up Hank’s nursery when I lived with my parents after he was born. But in the dream, it was still my room from the 90’s, complete with my day bed and the old dresser and Aunt Lil’s mirror. Again, red flag. WAKE UP.

At one point, I was sitting in the family room, this time of my current home. I was sitting on the floor surrounded by the toys that the boys had not put away. I told Jim, “I know this is a dream, I just need to wake up.” But I wasn’t waking up.

Finally, I turned to Jim and told him I needed to have another baby. “I’m only 35,” I told him. “I can’t go though another 35 years without children.” But, no sooner than I said it, I thought, “I hope I don’t have a girl. I need a boy.”

I finally snapped out of this nightmare when Jim crawled out of bed, grumpy as usual, and staggered into the bathroom. I shot upright in bed and quite literally ran to Hank’s room. I didn’t just gently touch him, I actually yanked his blankets off of him.

“Mommy,” he said, still half in slumber. “Why did you do that?”

Now, keep in mind that Hank rarely calls me “Mommy.” I am just Mom. That one word tugged at my heart. I bent over and tucked him back in, kissing his head. Then I went down to George’s room, gave him a little hug without waking him up, and headed to the bathroom. In there, I proceeded to bawl my eyes out. Once I regained my composure, I climbed back in my bed, only to cry for another few minutes before finally getting a grip. For God’s sake, Marney, it was a DREAM. They’re fine.

Jim was oblivious to the whole deal, he was in the bathroom, doing his usual morning business, shaving, showering, etc. When he came out, I told him I had a horrible dream that the children had died, but by this time I had completely regained myself and sounded normal. He said he too had a bad dream, but he couldn’t remember what it was. I brushed it off, but my heart actually hurt. It hurt so much that I made the kids pancakes. And I let them horse around. And I didn’t yell at them when I told Hank to go get dressed for school, but instead they ripped all the covers off the beds and made a fort. When I dropped Hank off at school, I told him to be careful today. He lifted one eyebrow (a genetic trait that I cannot perform myself) and said, “uh…. ok,” before hopping out of the car and running over to his friends.

I did some quick searches on the internet about what dreams mean, but couldn’t come up with anything specifically for what it means if your child dies. Mostly, death means something about figuring out what you are missing in your life, or facing your fears. I don’t know if dreams are a product of the subconscious or a message from the gods or just neurons or whatever firing in your brain, but I feel pretty strongly that I did not need a lesson on how horrible it would be to lose my children. I wonder, if there is any hidden meaning to it, if I am sad about my children growing up, hence, the death of their childhood. Hank is doing math that I don’t understand. George is using the potty. If you take a look at Hank, you can so clearly see my nephew Jonathan in him. But Jon is 21 now. Maybe it was something like that? Beats the hell out of me. The George Clooney reference — that just puts me at a total loss. I suppose that was just my mind’s way of letting me know that this was, in fact, just a dream.

I know that there is no time limit to when you stop worrying about your children. I am pretty sure that I was well into adulthood the last time my own mother checked on me in the middle of the night to make sure I was breathing. But today, I want nothing more than to hold my children as tightly as possible.